


Kid

by itstonedme



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstonedme/pseuds/itstonedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlando is a yoga instructor who is invited to a fete at McKellen House.  There he meets all manner of people, including a testy service worker hired to work the coat check and keep an eye on things.  Originally posted January 2010 for Orlijah_Month <a href="http://orlijah-month.livejournal.com/89571.html">here</a>.</p><p>Disclaimer: A work of absolute fiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kid

It's the night of the annual Mardi Gras Fete at McKellen House, a five-storey white stone Manhattan affair built in the heyday of the 20s before the Great Crash, before all things came to naught. The guest list is a hodgepodge of notable names and faces from every nook and cranny of society -- business, entertainment, sports, high society -- but in keeping with the host's fondness for the outré, there are also those who have been invited merely to season the pot, to add a little spice and flavour to the soiree if for no other reason than they are Interesting. 

It is among this motley crew of usual suspects that Orlando has managed to secure for himself an invitation. It seems that being a pretty and vivacious yoga instructor holds as much cachet with Ian as being a multi billion dollar media mogul. Orlando, seeing the opportunity to advance his station, has called in a favour with a flagrantly flamboyant wardrobe master at one of Broadway's busier theatres, and outfitted himself for this very special evening as an 18th century Italian duke. He arrives (out of sight and around the corner) in a yellow cab, tout seul as the saying goes. But by the time he rounds the street corner in the brisk March air, he is completely transformed in his mind's eye, owning the sidewalk and the silks he wears, the gilded heels of his sassy white buckle shoes clacking on the pavement. He is a vision: the tails of his gold and ivory brocade coat flap around the long strides of legs snug in ivory leggings, ivory velvet breeches whispering on his thighs. He takes the short flight of stairs to the ornate doorway in two leaps and arrives with all the airs of one born to a duchy. 

"Guard these well," he declaims inside the entryway, pulling buttery soft gloves from each hand, finger by finger, and slapping them on a silver salver held by the attending boy. "They cost me a carriage."

Behind his rococo mask, Elijah accepts the deposited items -- their laced edges flopping limply over the edges of his tray -- with a silent nod, careful to conceal his eyes so that when he rolls them, which he does immediately, this idiot won't see. It hardly seems to matter, however, since Orlando is all but ignoring him, his gaze fixed on the festivities unfolding in the great hall beyond. Once Orlando moves on, Elijah turns, the tips of all ten fingers and thumbs supporting the bottom of the tray, and retreats through a hinged doorway to the coat check. 

'Vanilla-dipped Wilhelmina twat' he scribbles on the slot card before placing the gloves carefully inside. He's beyond caring why New York's models -- especially the males -- piss him off. They just do. 

"Ooooo," Liv gushes behind him as she seizes on them. She reaches over his shoulder and snags one. "I want a pair."

Except for Liv. He'll cut her modelling aspirations some slack because she's just so darn cute.

"Careful," Elijah singsongs mockingly. "'They cost me a carriage.'" 

"Tut, tut," she chirps and slips on one glove, waggling her fingers. "I don't know why you have to be so grouchy every time we work one of these parties. It's not like you have to rub shoulders with any of them. Oh my god, feel these, Elijah! They're like a baby's bum."

Elijah turns to her and stares straight into a French maid's bosom. He looks down her impossibly long thoroughbred legs before he looks up. "Fuck, Liv. Can you actually make me feel any shorter? How can you even work in those shoes?" 

"Feel," she breathes, stroking the back of her gloved hand across Elijah's cheek. "No wonder women used to bare their breasts if men would touch them wearing these." She slips the glove off and looks down at the four-and-a-half inch Louboutin knock-offs she's wearing. "Combat boots, sweetie. I get less flack when guests have to look up at me." She replaces the glove and reads its storage card. "I've gotta go see who wore these. Maybe I can sweet talk him into giving them to me."

Elijah parks his tray on his fingertips and heads for the doorway. "All in white like Elvis, head up his ass. You can't miss him."

*

"There you are," Ian gushes, bussing Orlando on both cheeks, careful that the sequins and ribbons of their masks don't snag. 

"Here I am," Orlando bounces. He's so glad to see someone he actually knows. 

"Are you mixing? Spreading your charms among the invited?" Ian brushes back the wavy locks of his shoulder length wig with a mischievious smile.

Orlando's decided he needs to keep his eyes firmly fixed on Ian's face, because it looks like Ian has decided to channel Lauren Bacall this evening, complete with a square-shouldered skirted suit, and Ian's shaved and silk-stockinged legs are scaring the bejesus out of him. 

"Uh, yeah," Orlando replies gamefully. It's not like he hasn't been trying. 

For the first little while, he had approached people who'd turned -- clearly enthralled -- to include him in their conversations, and they had chittered enthusiastically for all of thirty seconds before his livelihood was queried because what one does seems to be what one discusses at these functions. While there might have been interest in their smiles, soon enough there was boredom in their eyes, and it hadn't taken long before someone had joined the group and attention had shifted, and he had felt invisible hands batting him away. So he'd excused himself and moved on.

At first he thought, so much for owning the sidewalk. By now, though, he doesn't think he should take it personally, because it doesn't seem to matter much what one says one does. The general trend just seems to be greet, graze and circulate.

One can't say he hasn't attracted admirers though. If they are under eighty, single and female, he's fucking catnip. The only problem, however, is that it's his eyes that start to glaze within a few minutes, because, well, that's just the way it is within Orlando's universe. There's a reason he's at Ian's party and not a Hilton sister's. So more excuses get made, and he moves on.

The male models are deadly. Maybe it's because they're accustomed to posing all broody or sultry or whatnot, but they aren't much on conversation except amongst themselves, about what fabulous parties they've been to, or islands they've been shot on, or which designers are the worst for copping feels, or which super models are squeamish about giving head. A closed shop. He doesn't even bother to excuse himself, just...moves....on.

Speaking of designers, he's met one or two, but loathe as he is to give them any currency, the male models are right: these guys come on like they want to fuck him right there among the canapes. For this, he could go to a club if he wanted, not Ian's party. So he takes their cards (because they all want to ~~undress~~ dress him), saying he will definitely be in touch, and excuses himself.

The guitar god is an amiable enough bloke, but he's so high he's beyond conversation despite the early hour, and his entourage are so utterly bored and pissy that they too have closed ranks, so there's nothing going on there.

"Smashing party though, Ian," Orlando says, getting back to his host. "I'm really happy you invited me."

"Well, of course, darling. And look at you! You look so tasty, I could eat you up. Doesn't he, my love?" He tosses a glance over his left shoulder, then his right, but there's no one there. "Oh damn," he says, flouncing about, "where's my Great Dane?"

"Ruff," growls Viggo, replete in Viking leathers, face paint and scruff, sliding out of nowhere behind him.

Ian giggles like the fair maid he is not. "Yes, and I will hold you to that," he coos, pressing more than his advantage against Viggo's furry kilt.

"Hey, Vig," Orlando greets, happy to see another person he knows.

"Orlando."

It's not like Orlando's going to get much more than that out of Viggo. Viggo is just so...spacey, whether he's drifting into the zen ether or explaining how the bourgeoisie are endlessly co-opting the street cred of the artistic fringe, look at what they did with Basquiat, you know? 

It boggles Orlando that Ian and Viggo manage to even fit.

"Care for a nibble, gentlemen?" 

Liv, all six foot plusplus of her, towers over their little triad offering an acrylic tray bearing tiny warm rice paper cones of Asian shrimp in beds of noodles and vegetables. She's holding out laced napkins in a perfectly manicured hand. All eyes look up.

Viggo starts to rock on his feet and gurgles some sort of admiring noise, then he's into the shrimp in a big way. She cocks him an eyebrow and a smoky grin.

"Goodness, Livvy Loo, you look positively statuesque this evening," Ian appraises. "Have you yet met Orlando?"

"No," she breathes, more Marilyn than Monroe herself, and Orlando flushes under her intense focus. "But I've met your gloves. How can you manage to wear them without turning yourself on?"

Viggo snorts. Orlando shifts from pink to fuscia.

"We have to talk about those gloves," she whispers conspiratorally, and Viggo moves into full battle grin.

"Gentlemen," she nods and walks on to the next little grouping.

"You're nuts if you don't tap that," Viggo mumbles. "Put the gay aside for a night." 

Ian thwacks Viggo's bare chest with the back of his hand and pouts.

Orlando is still ogling the retreating Liv. "What's with all the tall women?" he says. "Tonight I've been feeling like a little pine in a forest of redwoods." 

"Chop her down!" Viggo urges, earning another slap.

"Dunno," Orlando grimaces, clearly unable to see how that would work.

*

"He's gay," Liv sighs, brushing by Elijah who has finished his greeting duties and is rotating about the room with a tray of champagne flutes.

As far as Elijah is concerned, this is hardly useful information. "I could throw a dart, Liv. Which one?"

"Orlando of the Glove," she tosses over her shoulder, her tiny pinched feet clicking her departure. 

*

There's a group stationed around the piano where a lounge musician is playing some pretty decent Ellington. Figuring that all dukes should hang together, Orlando's been clinging to the edge, sharing in the conversation and laughter, and he's beginning to feel not quite so stuck in the margin. It's all a very strange game, he thinks, this high-end socializing, one he now wonders if he even wants to bother practising. It's funny what a difference one night makes. But he's scored a few new clients and some questionable connections, so not all has been lost. 

He's just wrapping up these thoughts when the woman to his left decides to punctuate the hilarity of a joke she's been told by throwing out her hands, and the wine glass in one of them connects squarely with Orlando's chest. And it's his luck that she's been imbibing a very red Malbec or something just as staining.

"Fuck," he exhales so quietly he doubts anyone has heard, stepping back and looking down at what was once a gold-threaded snow white quilted waist coat. 

"Oops," the woman gasps, still laughing, very drunk, but sorry all the same. Orlando can tell she probably figures it's a drycleaning fixup, give it to the chauffeur to drop off. Marco is going to kill him. 

Ian's caught the whole thing from the other side of the hall. "Elijah," he calls out to the champagne tray passing by. He nods towards the piano.

Elijah tracks his sightline, then nods back and makes his way across the room. 

"Come with me," he says neutrally when he's beside Orlando. 

*

They're in the kitchen, and Elijah has parked his tray and found a bottle of soda water and a napkin. "Take it off," he tells Orlando, indicating the jacket and vest. When Orlando has, they both push their masks up into their hair and stare at the stain that has seeped through to Orlando's ruffled shirt. "She fucking nailed you," Elijah comments.

"Christ, I'm toast," Orlando breathes forlornly. "The guy who loaned me this is going to have my head."

"Some duke?" Elijah asks, and there's a entire vacuum of sympathy in his tone.

"Costume guy doing me a favour."

Elijah is studying the fabric on the coat and waist coat and realizes that this is not a job for soda water. "These have to go to the cleaners. Take off your shirt."

"It's gotta go back tomorrow." There's no hiding the panic that wants to break loose as Orlando tugs at his neck buttons.

"It will. But your party hours might be cut short."

"Doesn't matter. You think the cleaners can fix this? Tonight?"

Elijah drops his head in exasperation and wonders if Orlando is some kind of high fashion simpleton not to know that this is the city that never sleeps. "This is New York," he says but since he's now looking at the floor, adds, "Your shoes might be trickier."

Orlando looks down. The velvet breeches, leggings and tops of the white leather period shoes look like they've been sprinkled with red wine holy water. "I'm so fucked," he whimpers.

"She really did nail you," Elijah observes. 

*

Twenty minutes later, Orlando is sitting in a barefoot lotus atop a linen pile in a small room beside the pantry, having traded his costume for one of the kitchen staff. He's hoping that Elijah doesn't leave him here too long. His feet are getting really cold.

He has zoned out when he hears Elijah cough into his hand from the doorway, intently watching him. "Everything go alright?" he asks hopefully, surfacing from his meditation.

"Your clothes should be back around 2am. Here." Elijah hands him a pair of white socks and black velvet slippers. "Courtesy of Ian's valet." 

"Oh, thank God," and he hastily puts them on, swinging his legs over the side of the linen cabinet. 

Orlando doesn't know that Ian's made him Elijah's assignment for the rest of the evening, much to Elijah's utter disgust. So when Elijah takes a step back but doesn't leave, Orlando thinks there must be some kind of protocol he's let slip before he remembers the whole business of tipping. "Right," he says, patting the breast pocket on the chef's jacket he's been given, in search of his wallet. 

Elijah waves him off, figuring he'll hold out for when he can finally get Orlando back into his brocade and kid leathers. "So, you with Wilhelmina? DNA? VNY?"

Orlando frowns. "I came alone."

They stare at each other. Finally, Elijah enunciates very slowly, "Which modelling agency are you with?"

Orlando's brows go up. "I'm not a model. What a bunch of twats. I teach yoga."

They stare at each other a little longer before Elijah's face splits into a grin. "I like you," he says.

*

"So, this is the service elevator, which stops at every floor including the attic, and down this hallway," Elijah points out as they move on, "is the elevator used for transporting larger items: furniture, art, that sort of stuff."

He's been giving Orlando a tour of the areas he has access to, which is mostly all behind-the-scenes, trade stuff. They've done the kitchen, the wine cellar, the electrical room, the laundry area, basically all the places where Ian probably doesn't go but his staff do.

Odd as it may seem on the surface, Orlando is finding that this part of the evening is turning out to be the most enjoyable by far. For one thing, he doesn't feel that he needs to peacock about and be careful about what he says or about remembering names. Secondly, Elijah is a nice guy, very hospitable and cutting edge funny when it comes to commenting on these types of functions and the people who attend. Thirdly, Elijah is a really cute guy. 

Like. Really cute.

"C'mon. I'll show you the guest services." 

They slip through a warren of doorways and hallways until they arrive at the coat check. There's a young woman keeping an eye on all the garments given over for safekeeping during the party, but it's awfully quiet and she's texting like a dervish and looking very bored. 

"Take a break," Elijah tells her, and Orlando must assume that Elijah throws a little weight among the hired help given her grateful departure.

"Look at the money hanging here," Orlando exclaims, strolling the aisle of furs locked onto their hangers, his fingers lightly stroking as he goes. "They're so soft."

Elijah very circumspectly pockets the card next to Orlando's gloves before popping his head around the corner of the storage slots. "Yeah, a fucking PETA nightmare, isn't it." His fingers brush the gloves, and speaking of soft... He picks them up.

"So, these didn't cost you a carriage?"

"Nah," Orlando says, his face in the sleeve of one coat, inhaling distractedly. "Only a blow job." He stops, having heard what just came out of his mouth and turns, blushing furiously. "God, sorry, that was way too much information."

Elijah's standing there, gloved hands up like he's just marched into surgery, lace cuffs swamping the puffed sleeves of his serving man's linen shirt. The mental image that has just slammed into his cortex, of Orlando's lips closing around anonymous cock -- with that little peek of tongue Elijah must confess he's caught himself drawn to more than once in the last half hour -- well, it's enough to jam neurons. Fuck. But he curls his wrist dismissively and makes an understanding face. "We've all had to bend our knees for something or other, don't be embarrassed. Liv was right; these are awfully soft." 

They're so soft, in fact, that he really wants to feel how they feel, and he tilts his head back and strokes his fingertips along the underside of his jaw, then over his cheeks, eyes closing. Damn, but he can still picture Orlando with dick, and it's pretty hot.

Over by the minks, Orlando swallows.

Hard.

Elijah's head snaps forward and he's grinning, a little breathless. "These are fuck-me gloves if ever a pair existed." 

Orlando actually manages to both blanch and flush at the same time. "So," Elijah says, walking over to where he’s standing, the coat sleeve still twisting in his fingers. "Wanna see what your wine lady arrived in?" 

"Yeah," Orlando breathes, but he's got his own movie reel unwinding in his head, and the main feature is a naked Elijah wearing nothing but those gloves while he brings himself off. And with Elijah now standing right next to him, he's seeing, smelling, and practically tasting the sexy video that wasn't there ten seconds ago.

"Let me see. Where did it go?" Elijah is checking coat numbers, but his fingers work clumsily in the oversize gloves and he pulls them off and hands them to Orlando. "You put them on," he says absently, flipping tags. "Here we go." He pushes the hangers aside. "Check this out. Your five-figure uptown sable stroller. Do you think maybe she went down on her knees for this?" 

When he doesn't get an answer, he looks up at Orlando. Who isn't looking at the coat. In fact, he's looking at Elijah like knee-bending might be in their respective futures really soon.

"Whoa," Elijah whispers but not in the stop kind of way, more like in the fuck kind of way, as his eyes track the cream-colored glove -- with Orlando's hand inside it -- that looks like it wants to pull him into a kiss. When it closes around his neck, cradling his head, his eyes dart back to Orlando's and, like, yeah, Hello. 

Orlando's dipping down. "Yeah?" he asks.

"Oh, fuck, yeah," Elijah breathes. 

Unlike his case of nerves out in the great hall, Orlando's not shy when it comes to kissing. He slides onto Elijah's parted lips with poise and deliberation, his tongue parting them even though they were parted anyway, and it is a tremendous discovery to both of them that when it comes to kissing, they both know what they're doing. It's wet, and invasive, and patiently thorough, and both can pretty well figure out who's on top and what's on bottom by how their tongues tangle and behave. And that just makes things hotter.

A gloved hand comes up to stroke Elijah's cheek, and he makes a little noise and melts a little more against the hand bracing his head. "Oh," he moans, as he breaks for air, rubbing his face into the palm. "Please, just keep touching me."

"Where?" Orlando mouths into his neck because he needs both permission and a definition of terms. 

"Anywhere," Elijah breathes, mouthing the soft kid. "Everywhere."

Orlando's hand slides down Elijah's chest, over the wool breeches, closing on Elijah's cock.

"Oh!" Elijah jerks. "Definitely there." He scrambles to unbutton his waist coat and shirt in a mad rush to feel those gloves all over his skin.

"We can't stay here," Orlando says desperately. "Anyone could walk in." But he can't take his eyes off the pale skin that is rapidly being exposed, and he reaches out, brushing his thumbs over Elijah's nipples. 

"Oh fuck," Elijah cries out, and he grabs Orlando by the neck and pulls him down, mashing their mouths together and ramming his tongue in as far as he can get. Somehow, they tilt to the left, right into the furs, and the wooden hangers jangle noisily against the rail.

"We can't stay here," Orlando says a little more desperately.

"Okay, okay," Elijah breathes. "Stay here." He slips up the aisle, and reaches under the counter, grabbing a ring of keys.

"What are you doing?" Orlando asks urgently when he returns. Elijah's busy flipping keys, not saying a word until he arrives upon one and reaches up to unlock the chain that's threaded through the sleeve of the sable coat. He pulls it from the hanger, quickly replaces the keys, and returns, grabbing Orlando's hand. "C'mon."

"What are you doing?" Orlando whispers more frantically, but Elijah has led him to a dark backroom stacked with chairs and small tables. He throws the sable over one chair, fur-side up, and moves Orlando in front of it. Quickly, he lifts the jacket Orlando's wearing so that he can untie the drawstrings holding up his pants and when he's done, he yanks them down to Orlando's knees. "Sit," he says. "Let’s try and make her cleaning bill a lot bigger than yours."

"Oh fuck, yeah," Orlando sighs when he's in the chair, and he can't help but squiggle his ass against the soft rich pile. Elijah straddles him, and unbuttons the very sensible flap on his trousers. "Oh God, touch me," he cries. 

Orlando makes to remove the gloves but Elijah's hand closes on his wrist. "Don't you dare."

"But they'll get messed," Orlando frowns.

"We're about to jerk each other off on twenty-five thousand dollars worth of chichi fur, and you're quibbling about some guy's gloves?? No fucking way."

Put like that, there's a certain logic in it.

Orlando pulls Elijah closer so that both their cocks can get acquainted, and when he takes them in hand, both his and Elijah’s heads tip back and they groan. “See?” Elijah whimpers and he’s tipping back so far that for a second, Orlando thinks he's going to flip backwards right off his lap, so he reaches out an arm to hold him up. But Elijah arches right back up and wraps his hand around Orlando's neck and stares at him with eyes so glittery in the darkened room that all of their magnificent blue has bled to ebony. He's rocking up slowly into the soft, slippery leather, panting little shallow gusts of breath and reaches up with his free hand to work open the buttons of Orlando's jacket.

"Fucking amazing," Elijah sighs, his head falling back once more. Any lack of lubrication they might have started with is quickly being taken care of, and the combination of cum and kid is beyond divine. 

Orlando would like to say that what's amazing is the silky soft texture of Elijah's own skin, the bits of it that are now beneath his lips: smooth satiny neck, tiny and surprisingly tight pecs, sharp and fragile collar bone... 

“Tighter,” Elijah gasps. “Squeeze, oh God, yeah, that’s fucking doing it.”

Orlando can’t help but greedily wonder just how dirty Elijah’s mouth can get.

Elijah's fingers eventually creep onto Orlando's chest, delicately stroking his nipples with the backs of his fingers. Their mouths meet, and they suck and taste and slide while their hips grind and thrust and slide, and it's hugely delicious.

As much as Orlando would like to slow the whole show down so that it can last and last and last, he knows they can't, that their little window of opportunity is shutting very quickly. So between the fur and the fingers and the kid leather and Elijah's rigid and slippery cock and this dark and forbidden cubby hole, Orlando rapidly approaches overdrive. "I can't hold on," he pants. 

Elijah answers by thrusting up oncetwice and coming all over Marco's glove.

It would appear that there's all sorts of payback going on tonight.

Orlando barks out and shudders, and any hope that the glove might escape with minimal damage pretty much just flew out the window.

They fold back onto each other, heads on shoulders around breathless laughter.

"We're keeping those gloves if I have to pay for them with tonight's tips," Elijah pants.

We. How very nice, Orlando thinks. Best party ever.

"Which means I have to get ready for the departures, which'll start happening soon. Come on.” He kisses Orlando’s temple. “I need the coat."

They use Orlando's borrowed jacket to clean the glove, and while he stands and buttons up, Elijah bends over and fluffs the cheek marks out of the fur. "Good as new," he announces.

"Come here," Orlando says, and pulls him into a leisurely kiss. 

"Go change your jacket so you don't smell like a bathhouse," Elijah whispers against his lips. "Then come sit with me while I retrieve coats."

*

Liv pads into the coat check a little after 2 am, high heels hanging from the fingers of one hand and a plastic garment bag bearing hotel insignia in the other. She stops and angles her head to one side when she sees Orlando sitting by the back hall door, Elijah on the other side of the room, both of them laughing easily about something. 

"This must be yours," she says to Orlando, holding up the garment bag. Her eyes dart immediately to the glove slot, which is empty.

"Don't even bother," Elijah tells her. "The cleaners said they were ruined."

"Nooooo," she whines. 

"Yup. Casualty of the party." 

Orlando's nodding, lips in a wry grin. "I am so going to get screwed because of those gloves," he says.


End file.
